


Hawkward

by CravenWyvern



Series: Previously Punned [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: A Bird Is Involved, And Is Also A Vegetarian, Gen, Kind of AU, Main Character Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Wilson P. Higgsbury owns a bird and hates the rain.





	

Wilson was getting really sick of all the rain.

It soaked him thoroughly, even with a raincoat of his own making on, and his hair…well, every time he got an opportunity to get dry, it frizzed up and tangled to the point where he didn’t want to even touch it. It made him look rattier than ever, and it was putting quite the damper on his mood; being clean can make one feel fresh and ready to go about their day, but even with this almost constant shower of water the humidity and heat made him feel sticky and greasy.

But at least it hadn't started to rain frogs. The clouds only had light rains, drizzles that were constant but not a downpour, so it seemed that the somewhat ‘magical’ ability to create amphibians out of thin air was impossible at this point in time. The scientist had decided that he should be grateful for this mercy and had focused his mind on more important things, such as getting a stable food source. In the early spring and autumn, he had been able to live off of birchnuts, but those could only work for so long and were very scarce in the winter.

In fact, this past winter had been especially difficult. He had only survived by the skin of his teeth, having to leave his camp consistently and walk further and further out into the wilderness, hoping to catch sight of a carrot or berry bush. The first signs of spring had been a relief, though he did not have much to celebrate until a couple of weeks later, when he had gotten his crops to finally grow.

And now, even with this constant rain, he had finally built it: a big, shiny birdcage. Already he had an imprisoned avian inside, a medium sized crimson bird that trilled at him every time he got close. He was still trying to make it docile and his fingers have suffered for it; even with such a short beak, the creature had a nasty peck. 

He glared at it from across the fire, hair drenched with a flowery parasol above him, trying in vain to protect him from the cold water. Earlier on, fearing that it would get sick, he had stretched pig skin over the cage and it had worked perfectly. So the little bird watched him, preening its feathers serenely, twittering every few minutes or so as he got more and more wet.

The thing that kept him from eating the bird was the fact that it laid eggs. Someone must have messed with its biology, because its reproductive system worked overtime and he got an egg everyday, the same size and the same shape. When he forgot to feed it the bird would stop laying, so he tried to make sure it ate more than the purple slimy meat he'd get off of spiders and hounds, since you are what you eat and he really didn’t want to find a slimy purple egg in the cage one day. That sent a shiver up his spine, because he had to resort to eating that stuff before and it had not been pleasant in the least.

The rain slowed down, then puttered out, the clouds shifting to allow the sun out for a bit. It was weak, not very bright or cheery, but he needed to take this opportunity to dry off. He didn't want to end up sick, because he has also done that and it had been very painful. Repeating the experience was not on his to do list.

Drying his cloths was, however. And, no matter how many times he's done this, he felt very uncomfortable undressing in the open. No one was actually out here, no one would see him in the nude. The beasts of the world had no cloths, and the pigmen were more often than not without cloths when he visited their villages (he really didn't like to think about that, but that sort of thing was hard to forget). 

And that was why he had planted a few trees in his camp. They grew fast, and unfortunately died fast, but their cover set his mind at ease for a short while and he could hang his sopping wet cloths on their branches. Bugs and the like might get into them, but better being itchy than cold and wet.

The hard part was the waiting. Oh, Wilson was a patient fellow, one had to be when one was a scientist, but usually science did not require him to be naked. And he couldn't hide under the trees branches, because then he wouldn’t dry properly and he'd be even more miserable, so every time he did this Wilson had to muster the courage to get out into the sunlight and…sit there. Until he was dry.

At least this time his camp was on a grassy spot and he'd be semi comfortable.

The birds chirping didn't help, neither did its staring, and after awhile Wilson started to get paranoid, grinding his teeth and making himself wait because this was better than being sick, this was better than being sick, this was better than being sick-

Except he suddenly decided that no, he'd rather be ill than naked in front of a bird.

And his damn cloths were not even slightly dry, but by then he was frustrated and feeling rushed, so who cared, he sure didn't.

He instead tried to make the fire hotter, threw in a few logs until it started to look a little unsafe, and glared at the flames for a bit, now feeling ashamed that he'd lost against his own mentality when it concerned a bird.

The bird did not care that he had no cloths on. It literally did not care, because it did not wear cloths and had no idea what cloths were anyway. It was an animal, a beast, and why in the world had he decided this was the better choice?

Wilson turned his gaze onto the cage and frowned at the bird, who was unconcerned with his plight. It was more interested in its tail feathers than him!

How rude! Here he was, a man who lost a fight against a bird, and said avian couldn't even give him its time of day! Standing up, the water dripping off of his shirt and into the grass, weighing him down, the scientist stalked his way over to the birdcage. It fluffed up and shook, throwing up a cloud of feather dust into his face and watched him cough and panic for a moment with dark shiny eyes.

Trying to clear the air with a few waves of his hand, coughing harshly as it caught in his throat, Wilson shook a finger at the bird and bared his teeth at it, hissing in frustration. The dumb beast was really getting to him! It probably deserved to eat purple monstrous meat, instead of the rabbits and beefalo that he so tirelessly had to hunt for it.

He could be eating those red meats instead, but his own bias against it stopped him, so the bird got the steaks and roasts.

So what did he get for his trouble? One measly little egg! Something that barely filled him up or made him feel satisfied! The little creature barely worked at all, not on par with what he did everyday, and it was getting on his nerves, a grating ache that dug into his head and goodness he felt so agitated, angry at this creatures audacity to act like this around him, its caregiver and feeder and-

He almost, almost opened the cage door, to show the creature exactly what he thought of it and how he was indeed above it, but its panicked shrieking shook him out of it, hand still on the handle. The bird flapped about, calling and crying as it hit the bars over and over, until finally it landed back on its perch and quieted, staring intently at Wilson and trembling hard. He stared back, mind blank, before pulling away from the cage and sitting by the fire once more.

After a second, he put his head in his hands and groaned, irritated at himself. Curse his paranoia, and curse his agitation and how on edge he was. He almost killed the one thing that gave him a sustainable resource, one that required very little food to run, and had it happened he'd have been at square one and very, very miserable.

With an innocent creatures blood on his hands, no doubt, and that guilt would have hung over him like a black cloud. The bird was not human; it did not have human thoughts, and thus his logic was fallible when he had personified it to human status. It would have died for no reason other than to satisfy his own unstable temper, nothing to help him or the world at large. He wouldn’t have even been able to eat it, for Gods sake!

There was a quiet twittering, then a few shrill notes, and Wilson looked up towards the bird cage. The bird wasn’t looking at him, more staring out to the trees and the forest beyond, and it sang out a few more notes before cheeping to itself and fluffing up, returning once more to preening. As it smoothed out its feathers, the scientist let out a sigh and slumped his shoulders, watching it quietly.

His cloths were drying, abet slower than he'd like, but the sunlight had gotten stronger and he felt comfortable in front of the fire, not willing to get up just yet. The clouds in the sky had cleared, open and blue above Wilson for just this moment, and the little bird twittered to itself gently, a soft sound in the silence.


End file.
